


Torschlusspanik

by The Cheshire Kitty (Stregatta)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen, Light Swearing, a touch of self-loathing too, people doubting their own potential, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:55:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23132767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stregatta/pseuds/The%20Cheshire%20Kitty
Summary: A head-strong, talented man having a poor excuse of a fight with a younger, head-strong, talented man.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Torschlusspanik

**Author's Note:**

> From thelocal.de, "Torschlusspanik describes the anxiety induced by the feeling that time is running out for you to act. It literally means ‘gate closing panic’, and particularly refers to people as they age, who worry that they have to take the opportunity now, in case they never get the chance again."
> 
> Here I am, diving into a new fandom for an old interest of mine (been following this crazy decadent circus of a sport for - gasp! - 21 years, now). This fic was literally born on the spur of the moment. No Monégasque or German people were harmed in the process.

The night fell on the city, warm and quiet – cars and people away from the main street, the gentle sound of the sea waves crashing on the land the only discernible sound.

The kid cut a pale, ghostly figure, bathing in the moonlight pouring on the little balcony.

He was slouching on a chair, gnawing at his fingernails, his leg twitching relentlessly.

Then, he palmed his face, rubbing his eyes and groaning an expletive in French.

It could have been his cue, to leave the doorstep and finally speak.

Not yet. Even witnessing what a nervous wreck the kid seemed to be at the moment didn't make him feel comfortable enough to do what he had to do.

Moreover, he liked what he was seeing, unfortunately.

A younger man being openly upset – wow, how low had he sunk to enjoy the view, for fuck's sake.

The same man who offered him his own place to spend the night at – an outside observer would have commented on how bad of a guest he had been.

Well, outside observers don't know shit. The kid had it coming.

And he was leaving, anyway.

\- Hey.

Charles turned around, almost falling from the foldable chair.

Sebastian couldn't hide his smirk at the sight.

\- Hey... Are you leaving?

Sebastian glanced at the suitcase he was holding, and nodded.

As Charles was about to reply, he cut him off: - Don't act like you're either surprised or sorry.

The kid stood there for a moment, looking dumbfounded.

He then let out a brief, bitter little laughter and went for the balcony, grabbing the balustrade like he was trying to strangle it.

Before Sebastian could leave, he mumbled: - Unbelievable.

\- I beg your pardon...?

\- Oh, just go.

\- I am going.

\- Yes, yes, please, just do it.

\- You are not throwing me out, I am leaving.

\- I know you are – I am not throwing you out, because I-I invited you in, I didn't want you to leave.

\- Sure, you don't want me to leave, like you hadn't planned this from the very beginning.

\- Oh, yeah, of course, that's why I offered you to sleep at my place... Because I didn't want you to sleep at my place. Sounds just logical.

\- It might be logical for you. I never know, with you.

Charles covered his eyes with his palms, his fingers curled like claws.

\- You are... You are so fucking paranoid! Why the fuck are you so paranoid!

\- Oh, I thought you know, didn't you? - Sebastian blurted out, letting go of his trolley's handle.

\- It's because of _ze voisis in yur èdd_ , isn't it? Diagnosis was clear. I am crazy and most of all crazy jealous of Your Majesty The Red Prince, here.

Charles took a deep breath.

\- You are twisting my words. I don't think you're crazy. What I think is that... You might be a bit... Stressed out.

\- You literally said that I hear voices.

\- It was a metaphor.

\- A metaphor! Sure – The Red Prince, F1 driver, everybody's heartthrobb, chess player extraordinaire, and now a poet too.

\- You forgot “Sebastian Vettel's therapist” – not that I really applied for it.

\- Then stop acting like you are my therapist – I already have one, thank you very much.

\- And what a good job they're doing.

In a few strides, Sebastian was on the balcony, a mere inch away from Charles.

\- Mind your own business.

\- This is my business. You are my teammate. And you are acting like I was sent by Satan himself to torture you when all I'm trying to do is-

\- Kissing my ass.

\- … getting along with you.

\- By kissing my ass.

\- By trying really hard to overcome your hostility. Seriously, you're so hostile all the time. Even when you are joking.

\- I don't go along with little hypocrites who act all innocent while they are plotting-

\- No, no, no, sorry, not again, I am not going to hear this bullshit again – plotting, fuck...

\- Ok, you don't like that word, let's say that you are... Hiding things. Hiding your real opinion about me. Just say it already.

\- What are you even-

\- You think I suck and you're better than me.

\- Fine – Charles said, and he grabbed Sebastian shoulders, keeping him at an arm's length distance.

Staring into his eyes, the kid slowly enunciated: - Sometimes... Not always, sometimes... You can suck.

In a second, Sebastian freed himself from Charles's grip, and punched him on his cheekbone.

Afterwards, his hand was throbbing with a dull ache all over its knuckles – and, well, he could hear definitely a little voice inside his head calling him names for using his hand in such a reckless way, he needed to take care of his hands, throwing punches could have damaged his joints and cartilages, what was he thinking?

And, sure, maybe punching a guy in the face could have damaged the guy's face as well.

Sprawled on the floor, Charles replied to the blow by kicking blindly at Sebastian's ankles – the whole reaction looking more like an angry spasm than a well-thought attack.

\- You fucking idiot, how dare you...!

\- On your feet, Red Prince, take it like the royalty you are.

\- I can't believe you wanna fight, really??

\- Oh, what are you gonna do, you're gonna call Mattia on me? “Bad Sebastian did me a boo-boo”?

With that, Charles threw himself at Sebastian's knees, making him fall – and the fight turned into a mess of attempts at slapping, scratching, punching and kicking without any of the contenders being really successful at any of the above.

At last, the both of them rolled off each other, panting and laying on their backs.

As soon as he had enough air in his lungs, Sebastian began to laugh.

Charles banged his open hand against the floor, shouting: - What the hell are you laughing at, now?

He didn't receive any answer, so he started to complain: - We behaved like children! This is the opposite of what we should do! All I wanted is... Being decent, being a grown up and... Look at us! You punched me, and I-

\- And you struck back. And we fought. Poorly, to be honest.

Sebastian rolled on his side, smiling wide.

He felt a little lightheaded, and sore.

He also felt relaxed, for the first time in a long while.

\- … we fought, and it was a draw.

Charles stared at him, his brow furrowed.

Hesitantly, he asked: - Would you consider this a double DNF as well?

The smile on Sebastian's lips faded away.

Scenes from their last GP played in his memory like a sickening dream.

However, he shook those pictures away, trying not to let go of the fragile, wonderful feeling of relief he felt just a few moments before.

\- What would be a win, in this scenario? Like, you killing me or vice versa?

\- I don't wanna kill you, Sebastian.

\- Well, the most important thing is that you cannot kill me, so...

Charles sighed, and both men fell silent, staring at the moon shining down their light on them.

\- Is this the only way we can have a decent relationship?

\- Like, getting in a catfight from time to time? Why not?

\- Well, if you don't mind the bruises... I mean, I do mind them. And I will get a huge one right on my cheek by tomorrow.

\- Oh, poor Charles Leclerc, he's so sweet, he's so handsome isn't he? He's very cute. He cannot have a bruise on his angel face.

\- Seriously. This is not sustainable.

The fact that the kid sounded like he was really taking the idea of having a Fight-Club-like kind of pact in order for the both of them to go along into account was absolutely hilarious, to Sebastian.

Hell, the whole situation was hilarious.

\- I appreciate honesty. You don't have to beat me. You can just be honest to me. It was easy earlier, wasn't it? Just say that I suck, if you think so.

\- Sometimes.

\- Yeah, ok.

\- No, really – Charles raised to sit.

\- Sometimes you suck. Sometimes I suck. And it sucks to suck. So, we need to work harder not to suck. That's it. This is honesty.

Again, there they were.

The little voices.

The kid hadn't been completely wrong, earlier – they had been there for a while, whispering a bleak counterpoint to any positive stimulus addressed to him.

_What if you do work harder, but you still suck?_

_What if people get tired of your grasps at reaching something that's just not attainable for you anymore?_

_Why don't you lay down, stop fighting, let the best seize the prize?_

_It's over. It's over. It's over._

_You're over_.

\- I'm going, now.

Sebastian could feel Charles's gaze on him, as he got back to his feet and walked to the doorstep to grab his baggage.

\- Goodnight. Sorry for your face.

Charles smiled weakly at him, still sitting on the floor, not trying to stop him in any way.


End file.
